His eyes narrowed. His gaze flicked away from me, scanned Lord March’s army arrayed behind me. Far in the distance, the battle in the harbor continued, its echoes dulled almost to nothing here in the streets of the northern quarter.
He had enough forces to defeat Lord March here. He might even be able to take the harbor.
But with Haqtl dead, he couldn’t take the throne. Which meant he couldn’t take the city, couldn’t expect to hold it.
He turned back to me, and for a single moment, I thought he’d continue. Better to die fighting than to retreat; better to die than to concede defeat; better to die than be captured.
A sneer crossed his face. “If leave, you follow. You kill us.”
I shook my head. “No. We’ll let you leave, without fear of attack.” Then I stiffened, let the river gather around me, let its menace enter my voice. “But you’ll have to retreat to Bosun’s Bay. And you’ll have to stay there. Or we will attack you, we will destroy you.”
His nostrils flared, his sword shifting in his grip. The men behind him grew restless.
In the end, he lowered his head. “We will . . . leave.”
His voice was harsh. Grudging. Filled with contempt, with hatred.
I nodded. “Then leave.”
He waited a moment, the muscles of his jaw twitching—
Then he turned, motioned with one hand, and shouted something.
A horn was blown—not the brass notes from one of Lord March’s horns, but the deeper, throbbing notes from one of the Chorl shells. An answering horn sounded from the direction of the harbor.
The Chorl forces began to regroup, slowly, the Chorl warriors moving as grudgingly as Atlatik.
Atlatik turned his head, stared down at Haqtl’s body, his own still rigid with contempt.
Then he spat to one side, sneering, and snapped an order in the Chorl language.
A covey of Chorl warriors ran forward and collected the Chorl priest’s body, lifted it quickly, but with reverence, and walked it back toward the Chorl line.
Atlatik paused, gave me one last, long, unreadable look—
Then turned and vanished into his own ranks.
“That was . . . interesting,” Erick murmured.
I shuddered, a tension I didn’t realize I’d felt releasing in my shoulders. My hand fell away from the handle of my dagger. I hadn’t even noticed it had been resting there.
“Come on,” I said, heading back toward Lord March and his retinue, toward General Daeriun and the Protectorate. I halted before Lord March, felt the men around him shifting restlessly.
“The Chorl forces are retreating,” I said. “They’ve agreed to go if you allow them to leave without being harried. They’ll return to Bosun’s Bay. You can try to slaughter them if you want, but they have more men than you, and they have their priests and their Servants—more Servants than you. Personally, I’d let them go.”
Lord March sucked in a deep breath . . . then let it out in a heavy sigh. “They’ve taken the Boreaite Isles, Bosun’s Bay and the surrounding area. They have a foothold on the coast.”
“Yes. And at the moment they’ve lost two thirds of their leaders. They’ve lost their homeland. They’ve lost a good portion of their men, first in Amenkor, and now here in Venitte.”
“We’ll have to deal with them eventually,” Lord March muttered.
I thought about what Avrell had said on the Defiant on the trip to Venitte. The Chorl would have to be dealt with, eventually. We’d have to form a treaty with them, come to some type of agreement about land, about the trade routes between the coast and the Boreaite Isles.
“But not at this moment,” I said to Lord March.
Lord March glanced toward the Chorl forces, a frown touching his face.
“If you attack them,” I said into his silence, “you’ll have to kill them all. Every last one of them—men, women, and children. They came to the coast to find a home, because they have no home left to return to. They’re going to stay on the coast. You won’t be able to drive them away.”
Then, more forcefully, because he still hesitated, “You’ll have to kill them all.”
And with that, I turned away—
To find Westen waiting.
I took one look at his eyes and knew.
My would-be assassin was dead.
And then I saw the blood on Westen’s shirt, the slashes in the cloth, and realized it was his own blood.
I raised my eyebrows and he frowned.
“It appears that the Chorl have their own Seekers,” he said.
I stilled, thought of the assassinations attempted in the Stone Garden, thought of those that had succeeded, and sighed.
I began moving through Lord March’s forces, leaving General Daeriun and Lord Sorrenti behind. Within moments, my entourage was joined by Captain Catrell.
“Mistress,” he said, the question clear in his voice.
“We’re leaving,” I said, voice tight. “For Amenkor. As soon as possible.
“I want to go home.”
Epilogue
Demasque and Parmati “survived” the Chorl’s assassinations, I said.
Through the Fire, I felt Eryn’s contempt. What did they say? Where were they during the battles in the city and harbor?
I snorted. They claim that after the attempt was made on their lives, they were forced to retreat to safety, that they never had a chance to help defend the city after that. There was too much chaos, too much confusion.
And yet Lady Tormaul managed to join Lord March in the north. And Lord Dussain ordered his forces to engage the Chorl as well, even though he was wounded and could not join them himself.
I didn’t answer. There was no need.
But my silence was noted. Eryn’s attention shifted more closely toward me.
What have you done?
I pulled back from the Fire, drew myself in so tightly that nothing was exposed.
Eryn sensed the change.
What have you done, Varis?
I stiffened, frowned. What I’ve always done. What needed to be done.
Eryn sucked in a sharp breath, her body tensed with a reprimand, with a warning—
But the breath set off a coughing fit instead. Spasms racked her body, her entire chest aching, a sharper pain lancing up from her gut into her lungs, a piercing agony, as if someone were slicing her open from the inside. I reached out through the Fire, absorbed some of that pain into myself, tried to calm the spasms that set off the coughing. I tasted blood in my mouth as I became entwined with Eryn, as I merged with her, the blood thick, rolling over my tongue. I spit the taste of it—cold iron and bitter salt—into cloth, spit again, and again.
Until finally the fit subsided.
I slumped back into the chair, exhausted, my arms weak, my breath ragged, but short. I winced as I shifted, the pain in my chest lessening. Tears streamed from my eyes—tears of exertion, of resignation.
I lifted the rag clutched in my hand, opened it.
Blood. More blood than it seemed possible to cough up; not a mere speckling. And dark blood. Heart blood.
Eryn’s blood.
I withdrew from Eryn’s body, sank back into the Fire, and as Eryn took back control she let the hand with the bloodstained cloth fall to the arm of the chair.
Thank you, she said. For trying.
I didn’t respond, didn’t know how to respond. Because the fire in her stomach had not subsided, because the pain—that dagger slicing her open from the inside out—hadn’t diminished even after the coughing faded.
We sat in silence, Eryn staring across her own chambers, across a room that felt empty even though a Servant waited to take care of any possible need. I should have left her, should have preserved some of the strength I was no doubt draining from Marielle, from Heddan.
Bu
t I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave Eryn alone. Not after what she’d done for Amenkor, what she’d done for me.
And eventually, she stirred, drew herself up straighter in her chair, became aware that I was still hovering within the Fire inside her.
When will you return to Amenkor?
Bullick finished the repairs to the Defiant after the battle in the harbor yesterday. He’s loaded the ships with cargo—William’s cargo—and we intend to head out today. Assuming there will be no interference from the Chorl on the trip north, we should reach Amenkor in roughly three weeks.
Eryn was silent for a long time.
Then: I’ll inform Nathem and Darryn.
I frowned at the gentle dismissal, thought about remaining. . . .
But there was nothing I could do.
So I drew myself out of the Fire, pulled myself free, and found the glint of white burning to the south. With a last glance over Amenkor, over the city I hadn’t seen in over four months, that I wouldn’t see again for another three weeks, I sped toward that glint of light.
I gasped as I entered my own body, felt Marielle and Heddan withdraw their conduits, felt Erick’s presence behind me, the scent of oranges strong, felt Westen’s presence as well, and opened my eyes—
To find Sorrenti seated in the chair opposite me, waiting.
I straightened in my seat, but did not nod in acknowledgment.
“Lord Sorrenti. You look . . . well.”
He smiled tightly. “It’s been a week since the attack, since the retreat. I’ve had some time to recuperate. The use of the throne was . . . draining.”
I felt the ground shuddering beneath my feet again, felt the tremors in my legs, recalled the crack the stone had made as the earth split. “I can only imagine.”
“The current story in the marketplace and on the wharf is that you caused the earth to shudder,” he said.
“We both know that’s not what happened.”
“Yes, but I’d like to let the lie continue. No one saw the Stone Throne except for you and your men. No one heard us discuss the throne except your men and the few Venittian guardsmen and Protectorate who accompanied us to the Gutter’s gate. The Stone Throne has been kept hidden for hundreds of years. I’d like it to remain hidden. I can keep the Venittian guardsmen silent. I assume you can do the same with your own men.”
“Yes.”
“Then let the rumors continue.”
“Very well.”
Sorrenti nodded, then stood. I rose as well.
“I wanted to thank you before you left. On behalf of Venitte, of course, but also on behalf of the Seven. If the throne had fallen into the Chorl’s hands . . .”
“And is that a direct thank you?” I said, smiling tightly.
He grinned. “Yes. All of the previous Masters of the Stone Throne thank you, but, in particular, Cerrin does. He can still sense you, especially now that you’ve been close, within the Council of Seven’s inner chamber itself.”
But Sorrenti halted, his smile fading. He caught my gaze, held it, his expression intent, mouth pressed into a thin line that was not quite a frown.
“Have you heard?” he asked.
I tensed, felt Westen and Erick shift stances behind me.
“Heard what?”
“Lord Demasque and Lady Parmati,” he said. “They were found dead, in their own bedrooms, on their own estates, their throats slit.”
I didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. My eyes never left his.
When it became apparent I wasn’t going to answer, Sorrenti frowned. He looked toward Erick and Westen, lingering on the captain of the Seekers a long moment, then returned his attention to me.
“Lord March is waiting at the wharf for your departure, for a more formal thank you, and a more formal send-off. Along with General Daeriun and the two other surviving Council members—Lady Tormaul and Lord Dussain.” He nodded his head. “Have a safe journey, Mistress.”
As soon as he left, Erick and Westen stepped forward, Marielle and Heddan rising as well.
“It’s time to go,” I said. “I’m tired of Venitte.”
* * *
The breeze from the channel cooled the sweat on my brow as I stood on the veranda. Sunlight glinted off the waves of the harbor far below, ships gliding back and forth in relative silence. A few bells clanged, an occasional shout could be heard; but otherwise it was quiet but for the wind.
And a sudden shriek from Jaer behind me.
I turned, leaned back against the stone balustrade of the veranda as five-year-old Jaer came tearing out onto the wide patio, dodging around the chairs and table already set with a decanter of wine, a pitcher of water, glasses, and a tray of bread and fruit. Pallin—two years Jaer’s elder—raced after her sister, her face screwed up in wrath.
Jaer flew behind one of the potted trees that shaded the veranda, the urn used as its base as large as she was. Pallin swore. “You little . . . When I catch you!” She darted left, and Jaer shrieked again, skipping around the urn, just out of reach. Pallin growled in frustration, faked a move right, but backtracked as Jaer fell for it and snagged her by the arm.
“Pallin!” Olivia barked, coming out onto the veranda carrying another tray of food—a haunch of mutton, already sliced. “Leave your sister alone.”
“But, Mother, she singed off a chunk of my hair!”
I almost snorted in laughter, but managed to keep quiet.
“I don’t care. We’ll get one of the servants to trim it back later. For now, let your sister go.”
Pallin considered, until Olivia gave her the look, lips set into a thin line, eyes slightly widened. In disgust, she pushed her sister away from her, Jaer collapsing to the ground a little too melodramatically. Pallin ignored her, stalking around to the far side of the table, as far from everyone as possible, so she could stare out across the channel and sulk.
Olivia set the tray of meat on the table, then wandered toward me. Her black hair glistened in the sunlight, and I reached up to caress the olive skin of her cheek. She smiled.
“Do you have to go in to see the Council?”
“You know I do,” I said, reflexively. A sudden sickening sensation coursed through my stomach, a thread of dread, of warning.
I frowned, my hand halting. Taking Olivia into my arms, I kissed the top of her head, breathed in the scent of her hair.
She looked up into my eyes, pressing in close. “You should eat before you go. Stay with Jaer and Pallin for a while.”
“I can’t. The Council has important decisions to make.”
“More important than me, than your children?” She said it lightly, mocking me.
“Hmm . . . you ask dangerous questions. More dangerous than the Council.”
She laughed, but that sensation of dread, that acidic burn in the center of my gut, flared higher, and I frowned. I turned, looked out over the harbor, out into the channels, listening intently, expectantly.
Olivia’s brow creased, her smile faltering. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. It feels like something’s supposed to happen. I keep expecting to hear—”
Explosions. The muffled sound of explosions against the cliffs. I expected to see fire arching up into the sky, shattering against the tiled roofs of the estates that lined the channels. I expected to smell smoke, taste ash, breathe in the reek of burning flesh.
Because this is what happened when the Chorl attacked. This was the day—that last day—that I’d spent with Olivia, with Jaer and Pallin, before the Chorl destroyed the peace of the coast.
Olivia felt my body tense beneath her hands. I knew because the smile faded completely, and she turned to face the channels, to face the harbor, one hand shifting to the center of my chest, resting there in concern.
We stood there in silence, Jaer and Pallin behind us, both at t
he table now, picking at the food, the fight over the singed hair forgotten. The wind rustled in the long, thin leaves of the potted plants. Somewhere, a seagull shrieked.
But nothing happened. There were no explosions, no fires, no deaths. Business continued as usual in the harbor below.
“Cerrin, what is it?” Olivia asked again, and I hated the concern that laced her voice, hated the fear.
Where are the Chorl? Where are the Servants, the priests, the warriors?
I glanced down, Olivia turning her head to see me, so I could see her face, her eyes, could smell the slight citrus scent of her perfume.
And then I realized, then I remembered.
This was the throne. This was the haven I’d created for myself. Not the haven I’d expected, and not built at the cost I’d expected, but a haven nonetheless. A retreat from the pain of this loss, this grief.
I relaxed, tension draining from me like water, sliding free. I reached up and brushed Olivia’s hair away from where the breeze had pushed tendrils in front of her eyes, then cupped the back of her head.
“It’s nothing,” I said, and then I leaned forward and kissed the worry from her mouth, the wrinkles from her brow.
“So will you eat?” she asked as I let her go.
I laughed. “Yes, I’ll eat. I’ll stay here—with you, with Pallin and Jaer—all afternoon.”
“But what of the Council? What of the Seven?”
I slid my hand into hers and pulled her to the table. “The Council can wait.”
* * *
“Amenkor, dead ahead!”
Everyone on board the Defiant crowded to the edge of the deck at the cry, necks craning to be the first to see the escarpment and wall of the city, or the tower of the palace. When the vague shape of the land gave way to the jutting arms that enclosed the harbor, a cheer broke out, the voices of guardsmen and crew mingling. Someone started a jig, another brought forth a fiddle and began playing madly.
When the watchtowers came into view, I smiled, felt something tighten in my chest, sting my eyes.
Someone laid their hand on my shoulder, their arm across my back.
Erick.
We watched as the walls drew closer, and then he frowned. “Those are new watchtowers.”
The Throne of Amenkor Page 120